


Steady & Loyal

by essequamvideri24



Category: The Shadow of the Tower, The White Queen (TV), Winter King: Henry VII and the Dawn of Tudor England - Thomas Penn, the white princess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essequamvideri24/pseuds/essequamvideri24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Prince Arthur lives, set after the death of Elizabeth of York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

Though the bells outside doled out their baleful tolls continuously throughout the days of mourning, within the castle all was as silent as the crypt. Most courtiers had returned home, and only the most steadfast remained to haunt the corridors along with the most trusted advisors and household of the royal family. The bleakness was not reserved for the castle alone, outside the walls the people of not only London, but the whole kingdom mourned and said copious masses, their voices a quiet unison of grief. Nature itself seemed to echo the dismal sentiment that pervaded England. The sky was massed with gray impermeable clouds to block out the sun’s light and the rain that fell in fits and starts was as icy as the people’s resolve that they had been robbed of their perfect and beloved Queen.

Arthur crept to the door of his father’s apartments. “The King has permitted no one to enter, your grace.” One of the guards said stonily. 

He nodded, flame colored hair falling out of place to cover an azure eye. “I know.” 

A hand on his arm caused him to turn, a round porcelain face with an upturned nose and rose bud lips gazed back at him, eye brows knit in concern, “Are you sure you want to do this.”

Arthur smiled back at his young bride in answer before returning his attention to the guards. “His grace may not know it, but he needs me now more than ever. I do believe he does not know what is good for him at the moment.”

“I am sorry your grace, but the King has only permitted Lady Margaret to enter.” The guard motioned to his grandmother, sweeping down the corridor in a mass of jet black silk and velvet. She walked with purpose, an enamel box clutched in her hands and a rosary wound tightly around one fist.

Her expression seemed to soften when she spotted Arthur and Catherine, gliding toward them with concern in her eyes. “I did not know you were coming, dear.” She said, the beads of her rosary cool on his cheek when she caressed him there. 

“Where else would I be, my lady?” He asked, as Lady Margaret instinctively threw an arm about Catherine’s shoulders, pulling the girl to her.

“I thought with the funeral over that you and Princess Catherine would return to Wales.”

“I thought I could be of some use to my father here, but clearly I was mistaken.” He continued when he saw the confusion on his grandmother’s face, “I am not permitted to enter and console my own father.”

Lady Margaret sighed and looked heavenwards, “Yes, my son has always been as stubborn as I, a trait which has fortified him in the past could also be his ruin.” She passed the enamel box to Arthur who handled it clumsily. “Bring this to him, on my authority. It contains soothing ointments and potions.” She looked past her lanky grandson to the guards beyond, “Admit him to the Kings rooms, he comes bearing my remedies.”

Arthur nodded in thanks to his grandmother before stalking through the doors and into the unknown. Though it was midday the apartments were dark and the windows shuttered. Here and there a candle burned low, while others had guttered out. There was a dank musty smell inside, clearly there had been no fresh air in the rooms for days. Food stood on the table untouched and papers were scattered all over his father’s writing desk; not the usual accounts and petitions bearing his father’s crude handwriting, but letters and notes written in an elegant hand. 

“Mother?” A horse voice called out from the bed. Arthur tried to answer, but the words caught in his throat. He would be lying if he’d said his bravery had not fled him. “A ghost, perhaps?” The voice said more quietly now, and Arthur blinked back the tears that threatened. “If you are not a ghost, come closer, so I may see you.”

Tentatively the boy stepped closer to the bed. The rumors, he feared, were true. No longer a king, but a simple man racked with grief, lay abed. His father’s already slim face had grown more gaunt, the cheeks hollow, and the eyes dark. A scraggly, patchy beard and tangle of tawny hair a made him look like any common peasant, as did his clothes, a wrinkled shirt and a pair of old breeches, his feet bare to the chill of the room as was his head. The great man was curled up in the bed, hugging his pillow. “Who are you?” He croaked.

Steeling himself, Arthur sat on the edge of the bed and placed the box on the side table, next to a stump of a taper still burning. “It is me, your son.”

His father buried his head deeper into the pillow. “Arthur, what are you doing here child? You are not supposed to be here.” The last sentence came out as a growl.

“Father?” He had not expected to be met with so much hostility, but he knew grief did odd things to people. “I have come to – “

“Get out!” The king said menacingly, not lifting his head. Arthur sputtered for the right words before Henry sat up abruptly, “GET OUT!” He roared.

Arthur stood, dithering for a moment, the tears again tried to push past. He was a prince, he reminded himself, a man really, and one day a king. “No.” He said with more force than he truly felt, “No, I will not leave.”

“I said get out of my SIGHT!” His father railed on, throwing the pillow aside, “I will NOT have you here.” 

Arthur bit his lip, the muscles in his jaw and throat tightening. “Why? Why not?” He demanded.

“Get out of my SIGHT you DAMNED BOY!”

“I will not listen,” he insisted, masking his own fear, “to the ravings of a mad man!”

Henry was out of the bed now, though he still wore his intimidating look, the man’s own body betrayed him. Thin and frail, he had to hold onto the bed post to prop himself up. “You WILL get OUT!” He lunged for his son, long bony fingers clutching Arthur’s shoulders. “I cannot stand the SIGHT of you!”

There was nothing to say. In the void that followed the two looked one another in the eye, man-to-man. Tears glistened in Henry’s eyes before he fell on his son, crying into Arthur’s shoulder and stroking his long red hair. Arthur bore his father up, patting his back soothingly. “It’s just,” he sniffled, “You look so much like her.”

Now his own eyes felt wet, but he had to be strong. Hearing his father, the pillar upon which a nation stood, sobbing inconsolably, was almost more than he could handle. “And so a part of her will always be with you.” He said softly so his own voice would not break. He could feel his father nodding into his shoulder. “Come now, let’s get you back in bed.”

****

After some warm broth and some hearty bread, Arthur had applied his grandmother’s remedies, which saw the king into a peaceful sleep. He made sure a strong fire was laid in the hearth and ordered some of the more discreet members of his father’s household to come in and tend to the rooms quietly.

He returned to his own rooms rather later than he had initially anticipated, after finding some rather urgent paperwork on his father’s desk under the multitude of letters he had folded up and placed in a coffer. There were matters of state that needed seeing to, and leaving them unattended would only fuel the rumors of how weak the English King had become. He signed in his father’s name and carefully applied the King’s seal to the myriad papers. It was wrong, he knew, but it was for the good of the Kingdom.

Lovely Catherine was seated at her dressing table when he entered, combing out her long red-gold hair. “How was he?” She asked as Henry shrugged off his dour black robe.

“He…” Arthur searched for the words as he tugged the cap off his head, “has been brought quite low.”

Catherine stood and came toward him. “He really loved her, did he not?”

“He adored her. Everyone did… does… I don’t know.” His shoulders sagged, being strong for someone else had taken its toll on him.

Taking his hand in hers tenderly, Catherine looked up at him, “I can see you are weary. Leave you cares with me, husband.” Even after two years there was still a Spanish lilt to her often imperfect English; something he found endearing. 

“I would not trouble a princess with such things.”

She smirked, “I thought you knew by now I am not like other princesses, I am no wilting flower.”

Quite right. He had soon learned how strong Catherine was. Though she was small and dainty on the outside, on the inside she had the heart of a lion, and had endured much. “You are right, my lady, you are no flower for flowers wither and fade, changing with the seasons. You are… a diamond.”

It had taken quite some time for them the break down the language barrier between them after they wed, and even more time after that to get to know one another. Even though they had been married two whole years, the young bride and groom were still working on finding their footing with one another. They were not so unlike each other, each enjoying good literature and fine music. But in truth, he often thought she was everything he was not. He was naturally predisposed to being tenderhearted, where she could be more sensible and objective. Where he would hesitate and overthink a matter, she was cunning and had a quick wit. Though with time, he thought, they had become more like one another, working together as a team.

But they still had much to work on, something both were keenly aware of. Tonight, though, was not a time to focus on that.

Arthur settled into the bed as Catherine flitted about the room, putting away her jewels and tidying up her books. His mind was full of thoughts, unpleasant thoughts. His father’s grief and despair, his mother’s sudden illness and her ghostly white face at the funeral, his baby sister dead and buried in haste, watching the tears stream down young Harry’s face as he said goodbye to his beloved mother for the very last time.

“Shall I read to you?” Catherine was climbing into their high bed, a leather-bound Bible in her hand, it was a gift he had given her just after their wedding, a beautifully illuminated manuscript he had commissioned for her upon their proxy marriage. 

“Yes please.” He said as she moved the candle on her bedside table closer, the better to read by. 

Catherine flicked through the pages with care until she reached the desired passage, and began reading in mellifluous Latin, her melodic voice as soothing as the comfort one could find in the holy book itself. She seemed only a little surprised when Arthur leaned his head on her shoulder to look at the beautifully illuminated scriptures.

He wasn’t sure when he had finally fallen asleep, but Arthur woke to found his head still on Catherine’s shoulder, his wife resting on the pillows a smile on her cherub’s lips and the small Bible resting open-faced on her breast. Clearly sleep had overtaken them both as she read.

Rousing himself from bed, Arthur set his mind on the task of ensuring his father was recovering. And while he would have liked to have fancied himself the altruistic sort, he had to admit the deed would also keep his own mind from the crushing grief. Dressing quickly, he planted a kiss on the still sleeping Catherine’s forehead before leaving.

As he marched through the corridors Henry thought about his responsibility. When he had come to London he had left Wales in the capable and trustworthy hands of the rather aged Sir Henry Vernon, his governor and treasurer. But what of England? His father could not rule like this, and Arthur could not sign off on orders and accounts indefinitely. Sooner or later the King would have to meet with his council, and what would happen then? 

He found his feet carrying him on a detour, his mind sunk so deep in thought, that he was rather surprised to find himself at the door to his grandmother’s apartments. “Is my lady grandmother within?” He inquired of the manservant in the antechamber.

“Yes, your grace, shall I announce you?” The young man asked, bowing.

“Please.”

Arthur was received warmly by his grandmother, as per usual. She had always doted on him, especially, from amongst his parents’ children, their relationship remained as tightly knit as it had been in his infancy. 

“Your father troubles you, my son, yes I know.” She said as they seated themselves before the warmth of the fire, “For he troubles me as well. I went early this morning and saw the pains you took to see after him.”

“Will he recover?” 

Lady Margaret stared into the flames, “Only God knows. And only God can heal his wound, for only He can mend a man’s heart and soul.”

This was not the answer Arthur had wanted to hear, much as she knew his grandmother was right. “What can we do?”

“Man’s abilities here are limited. We can love him and see to his physical and spiritual nourishment, nothing more.” He watched as she absent-mindedly thumbed through the beads of her rosary.

“Surely we can do more than that?” Arthur slouched to rest his elbow on the arm of his chair, and his chin in his hand. “What of his Kingly duties?”

“His council can carry on –“

“With no direction?” He frowned.

Lady Margaret narrowed her eyes and stood, “What are you proposing?”

“I shall stand in my father’s place, while he is unable.”

His grandmother circled her chair, “And how shall you explain your father’s absence without making England look weak?”

Arthur sat back, “How have we been explaining his absence thus far?”

“That the king is indisposed with an ailment.” She folded her hands. “If you step into his shoes now, people will fear his recovery is anything less than imminent.”

“Which is of more concern, the people’s suppositions about their King or the truth? We cannot allow things to continue without supervision because we fear what will be whispered in the streets.”

“It shall not just be the streets of England, my dear boy. It shall also reach the courts of our adversaries and allies alike.”

Arthur stood abruptly, “I am a boy no longer, my lady, and I would rather these adversaries see someone still sits the throne of England rather than supposing it is vacant and ripe for the taking.”

Lady Margaret nodded curtly. Her adoration of her first-born grandson replaced with something else, a begrudging respect for the man he was becoming.


	2. Heir Apparent

“Your grace, I do not intend any impertinence, but only his grace, the king, may call the council to meet.” The bewildered mousey-faced chamberlain struggled to maintain eye contact with the prince.

Arthur knew how to handle these things only in theory. He was learned in statecraft and kingship, but his education had been limited to a classroom, a tutor, and some books. Words on paper meant little in the face of the real thing. “My royal father, the king, is indisposed with an ailment, good sir. I am about my father’s business.”

The man barely suppressed a sigh of exasperation, “Your grace, we are perfectly able to-“

“To rule a kingdom? Surely not. All councils require leadership, a royal head. And in my father’s absence I am here to provide it.” He strode long legged about the man and into the council chambers. “I shall be head.” 

He had never been in this room. It had always been barred to him. But here it stood, with its peaked ceiling supported by hammered beams, its stone columns, its oversized oak table flanked by tall chairs. A glance about the room told him that he was both expected and unwelcome. Beside each chair stood a richly attired nobleman, they had all glanced at the boy when he entered, then at each other, knowlingly. 

Arthur was dressed in his finest, and most plain clothing; a oxblood jacket of rich velvet paired with black suede breeches, overlaid with a black velvet robe. He had done his best to imitate his father, in all things. The seventeen year old on the brink of adulthood only just had a tenuous grasp on how he thought to proceed. But, he was certain of the first step; mirror his father’s attitude, appearance, and feign his wisdom.

“My Lords.” Arthur announced as he found what he could only assume was his seat, more ornate than the others and raised on a small platform at one end of the great table. “I call this meeting on the king’s behalf to discuss matters of state and foreign diplomacy.” The words felt odd on his tongue, almost wrong.

The lords all looked from him to one another, again. Arthur could practically read their thoughts. “I assure you, my lords, I call this meeting out of a singular love and concern for the people of this kingdom. I do not aspire to my father’s throne, crown, or power.” He took the chair and the lords, somewhat tentatively took their own. At least they paid him that small gesture of respect. After all, to sit was to commence the meeting. It was a sort of recognition of his authority. 

After a beat, and with all eyes on him, he asked, “What business is there to discuss?” Arthur had, of course, never been privy to a council meeting, and in truth knew none of the traditions as to how they were conducted.

“My grace.” A small man stood and addressed the prince. The others immediately turned to face him, some looked less pleased then others. “There is your sister’s wedding to discuss. The king of Scots grows restless… impatient… he says he tires of waiting for the Princess Margaret.”

Arthur ignored the looks the men were shooting each other. Some seemed incredulous that they would entertain this boy sitting in his father’s place. “Was not her age, and the attainment of majority, a condition of the marriage? Were not these conditions made clear to our brother James at their betrothal?”

The small man cleared his throat. “Yes, your grace.” He said in his high, pinched voice.

“What is his complaint, then? Does he fail to understand the contract he entered into? Is he reluctant to adhere to what he had already given his word to?” The prince resisted the urge to play with the ring upon his finger. He took a deep breath and told himself he was in control.

“He understands, your grace, he simply grows impatient.”

Arthur set his teeth. “My sister is but a child, and Scotland is a wild country. Their king – our brother – is a-a-“ A womanizer, a warmaker, Arthur knew the man’s reputation and predilections, but it did not need to be repeated, “a hard man. England will not send their most beloved princess to him any sooner than it must.”

“What shall we tell him, your grace?” Beads of perspiration formed on the man’s moon face.

He thought a moment. “I shall write to the King of Scots myself.” This was a matter, he reasoned, that craved a personal, delicate touch. “On the subject of marriages, has a suitable bride been found for my brother, Prince Henry?”

A second man stood as the first took his seat, a slender man with a well groomed grey beard upon a drawn and pale face. “There are a few contenders.” He said, something of a lower class accent he was trying to overcome affected some of his vowels.

“Anyone worthy? And connections of note?”

“Margaret of Austria…” The man offered tentatively, “Her father Maximillian is most anxious to see her wed.”

“Again?” Arthur asked, wide eyed. The young Duchess had already endured two short lived marriages. He would not have the Austrian inflict her unseemly luck on his brother. “Who else?”

“The Pope seeks a suitable match for his niece, Clarice de’ Medici.”

Arthur thought this over, “Was not her father Gran Maestro of Florence? And was he not exiled?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Who else?”

The man prevaricated a moment. “No one of note, your grace.”

Surely there were other suitable matches out there. “I would urge you to compile a more suitable and extensive list for the next meeting, my lord. The prince must marry.”

The man nodded curtly before taking his seat.

The council meeting ran through the midday meal and only concluded when Arthur felt himself famished. He had quite forgot he was in charge of dismissing the others and calling a close to the meeting. There had been so much his father had left unattended or neglected. And there had been so much he had not known. Arthur had always done his utmost to stay abreast of the political climate and royal affairs, but it was only now he realized how little he really knew.

But Arthur sensed that the lords did not trust him. If they suspected him ignorant of some subject or news they brought to his attention, they would immediately withdraw it from discussion and move on. While this was somewhat disheartening, it did his heart good to know that his father’s advisors were such unfailingly loyal counselors.

The meeting had left him with much to contemplate. The situation with France, the relationship with the Holy League, his siblings’ futures, tensions in the kingdom, and so much more. He now understood why his father looked older than his years.

Back in his own apartments he had the latest household accountings brought up along with some supper. The food tasted like nothing at all to him, he took no notice of the quality as he poured over the numbers. Littered in amongst the usual spendings were reminders of his mother; payment for a physician, a midwife, a small casket, burial, masses. Just so, there were reminders of his father’s current state; orders for ointments, salves, herbs, and so on. 

He hoped his father would not be furious with him when he finally was able to leave his sickbed. If he ever left his sickbed. Arthur drew a hand over his weary eyes and rubbed his eyelids. Of course his father would be mad, what king would not? An upstart son assuming his father’s duties while his father lay languishing. Would his father think Arthur had assumed his father was on death’s door?

There was a barely audible knock at the door. He was in no mood for visitors this evening. “Come in.” He called without moving from his chair.

The door creaked open on its hinges behind him and there was a rustle of silk as a soft-footed woman entered. “I came to see how you are.” The voice was affected with a strong lilt, and unnaturalness. He knew it was Catherine.

He turned in his chair, an arm resting upon the back. “I am fine. And how are you?” She was dressed in a deep blue-black silk dress edged in black silk ribbon, her fine gold hair concealed under a black hood trimmed in silver. About her neck was a silver chain, blue amethysts adorning each link. It was a gift he had given her for her last birthday, a gift he had given with the selfish thought of how well it would please him to see her eyes set off by the twinkling amethysts. 

“Quite well.” She toyed with the small prayer book dangling from her girdle. For a long moment she was silent and Arthur could sense her unease.

“Is there something else you wanted?” He asked.

“Only…” She fumbled for the words, “Will you come to mass with me in the morning… tomorrow morning?” 

He caught her eye, “Yes, yes I will.”

“Then I shall… bid you a good night.”

As she curtsied unnecessarily, she flashed him a secretive smile. It proved contagious, and he nodded to her before she turned to exit the room.

Lovely Catherine. He thought, too lovely for me. She was beautiful, and more than that, she was remarkably intelligent and clever. The language barrier had been hard to overcome, but the only thing more difficult to get past was their understanding of one another.

They had done their duty on their wedding night, as they were bound to, and had drifted apart afterwards. The separation had only been natural, while she became accustom to a new land, language, and people. Seeing that they were growing apart rather than together, Arthur had taken their leave of London and had traveled with her to Ludlow. There, in relative isolation, they were able to strike up a blossoming friendship, interrupted only by the illness they had both taken, and which had threatened Arthur’s very life.

From their friendship they had yet to grow. If he was completely honest with himself, Arthur was quite awestruck by Catherine, a woman so opposite his mother. While they were both beautiful and intelligent, Catherine was clever and inquisitive. He had seen her bend men and women to her will, and she was always well informed of the latest news both in England and abroad. On several occasions he had caught he going through his papers, and had once or twice allowed her to quiz him about statecraft. According to his father, she was her mother’s daughter.

While he found Catherine captivating, at the same time, Arthur inexplicably felt himself ill matched to her. How could he forget her on their wedding night? Tucked in to bed, a sheer veil covering her face, loose hair, and bare shoulders. She was a vision. While she was striking and elegant, he was aloof and plain. What could she ever find to admire in him? 

They had never slept together after their wedding night. Occasionally they would share a bed, but with the tacit agreement that it was only for show or only as friends. He knew, though, that eventually they would be expected to have children. He only hoped that he could put off that day.

****

“What did you think of the message?” Catherine looped her arm through Arthur’s as they left the chapel, looking up at him as she did so. She was petite and sweet beside his lanky and sometimes somber self. A fine contrast they must make to all who saw them.

“It was quite… good.” Arthur settled for a mediocre response. He had not truly been listening to the priest. Of course Arthur loved God and believed in Him most wholeheartedly, however he did not count himself as being particularly inclined to deeper theological studies, unlike his grandmother or mother.

This answer did not seem to please Catherine for she wrinkled her forehead. “I thought, certainly, and of course I may be wrong, your grace, that the expounding upon a passage such as Romans 13 would certainly be of interest to you.”

“Romans 13?” He asked.

“I do not mean to sound…” Searching for the correct word and coming up empty handed, Catherine forged ahead without completing her sentence, “but were you not listening, your grace?”

He sighed and shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. “My mind was otherwise occupied, I confess.”

“Of course.” Catherine said, walking quietly with him. 

Arthur racked his brain for something interesting to talk with her about. Perhaps the weather, though it was not of note. Perhaps the state of her household, though he feared she would resent him if he brought up her spending habits. Perhaps…

Just then he was saved by the sound of Catherine’s gentle voice, “If you would like, we could have supper in my apartments tonight and go over the passage after we eat.”

Just then he saw his grandmother swaying down the corridor toward him, her steps unmistakably marked with purpose. “Yes, princess, I shall see you tonight.”

She, too, caught the sight of Lady Margaret advancing and pressed Arthur’s hand before she left him to his grandmother’s company. He could not help but watch a moment as she passed by his grandmother as they moved in opposite directions. They were alike in a few ways, but vastly different in many others.

“Prince Arthur,” his grandmother addressed him formally, as there were others in earshot, “I had heard you presided over a council meeting yesterday.”

“Yes, my lady.” He allowed her to take his arm, recently vacated by his wife. “And what else did you hear.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Such meetings are strictly private, you know. Besides, I do not count myself a consummate gossip.”

“Of course, grandmother.” The lady was only the very ears of the court.

“You know, those meetings are for the king and his councilors… alone.” 

Had they not been over this very subject only a few days ago? “Yes, but the king is indisposed. Such personal conditions should not be allowed to affect the governance of a land.”

Lady Margaret only raised her eyebrows in response, offering a curt, “Hmm.”

“And have you been to see my father yet today?” She had been something of a nursemaid to the king since he had locked himself up in his rooms.

“I had thought to ask you the same question. But, no I have not.”

He resisted the urge to bite his lip. “Nor have I. Perhaps we should visit him together.”

The king’s rooms were not in such a pathetic state as Arthur had found them a few days prior, but neither were they in the improved condition he had last left them in. The air was less stale, and there was no food left standing on the table, aside from a cold bowl of porridge and a half-drank cup of small ale. Some of the windows had been covered with heavy drapes or shudders, while others permitted some dim light and one actually stood open just a crack.

They found the king, stretched out in the oversized bed on his stomach, covered in a downy blanket and a large fur. Eyes closed peaceably enough, there was a look of discontent and sorrow etched permanently into his hard features. His tawny hair was a mess of limp curls and his complexion had taken on a pale sallowness.

Lady Margaret moved cautiously to sit on the bed beside the king’s slumbering form. As she gently roused him, Arthur went to the door to order a serving boy fetch some food before he turned to stoke the fire himself. There was something of a chill in the room, and such conditions would be sure to worsen his father’s already precarious constitution.

Together Lady Margaret and Prince Arthur fed and consoled the famished and inconsolable. Margaret rubbed her son’s temples with ointment and brewed him a strong drink that she claimed could cure his ailment, though Arthur knew not what ailed his father aside from grief and a deep, horse cough. 

They stayed and talked with him for a time. And while a part of Arthur yearned to tell his father of the steps he had taken, he knew to do so would be unwise on multiple levels. Since Henry did not bring up affairs of state, Arthur and Margaret did not discuss them. Conversation was stilted, awkward. Oftentimes Henry would not engage. But occasionally he would inquire after his children, his friends. Sometimes his eyes would water and Margaret would deftly steer the conversation to some innocuous topic. “The snow has all melted now, and I have even seen my first cardinal of the year,” she would remark off-handedly.

After a time it was clear the king craved more rest and they backed away from his sickbed. Leaving the apartments Lady Margaret paused, her hand brushing the wood top of the king’s writing table. “You will be needing these, I suppose.” She whispered, her eyes falling on a worn, oversized leather pouch from which spilled a mass of papers.

Arthur looked up at his grandmother, a question in his eyes. She nodded, her hand still resting on the table. Gathering the papers into the pouch, Arthur took it under his arm, with a glance back at the grand bed.

****

There was only time to deposit the papers in his rooms before he was summoned to Princess Catherine’s apartments. When he entered he found Catherine standing beside a well laid table in a plain black gown, her silver and amethyst necklace her only adornment aside from her golden hair which tumbled down over her shoulders loose.

“Good evening.” She said as he came to kiss her hand. “Shall we?” 

They were served by some of her ladies and Catherine asked Arthur to bless their meal, which he did willingly if a little awkwardly. As he took his first bites Arthur peered about the room. Catherine lived in great style, as befit a princess, he supposed. All the window and bed hangings were of the most beautiful cloth of gold brocade, and her walls were stuffed with tapestries and paintings in rich color. Her dressing table was the ultimate manifestation of her magpie tendancies, littered with looking glasses, silver and gold trinket boxes, blown glass bottles and jars of every color, jewels left sitting out alongside cosmetics, and even the odd prayer book. Her rooms, with their decorations and lived in flavor, were an open book on the princess’ virtues and vices.

“How did it go with your grandmother?” She asked before dipping her spoon into the beef stew.

“Well, we visited with the king together.”

“And how is his grace?”

It took Arthur a moment to assess what he had seen today and form his answer. “Not much altered.” He replied.

“What is it that ails him?”

“Grief, of course.”

She was silent for protracted moment, her eyes on her food. “What is it?” Arthur asked, when he saw she was deep in thought.

“Nothing.” Catherine picked up her spoon again, then paused, “Only, well, the king really did love your mother?”

Arthur thought of his mother, her warm smile, her tender heart, her generosity, her faithfulness. “Most ardently. More than anything.”

“Why?” The question seemed to slip out before Catherine could catch herself. “I apologize, Ar- your grace.” She pressed her fingers to her lips.

He shook his head, “No, no. Do not… fret.” He had thought often of his parents’ relationship. Other rulers did not seem to share the same bond as them, there was something different about them. He had figured it only a short while ago. “My mother supported my father in all things and made him a better man. My father, in turn, esteemed my mother and was attentive to her. Their connection was built on respect and nothing else.”

Catherine met his gaze, “So then, happy marriages, in your opinion, are formed out of respect?”

“Theirs was.” He reached for his wine cup, “Though, I cannot imagine love without respect.”

“Nor I.” 

The supped for a few minutes before Catherine flitted to another subject. “How do you find ruling?”

“Oh, but, I am not ruling.” Arthur protested hastily, “I am… managing, delegating, overseeing… oh but I am not ruling.”

“What is ruling…” Catherine began with a mischievous smile, “but any of those activities you just listed?”

“Ruling denotes some sort of divinely ordained authority,” He explained quickly, “ruling comes with power and authority and-and-and it is more than merely managing, it is on a higher plain.”

“Hmmm…” She sipped her wine. “So you are managing…”

“Yes, managing my father’s affairs… in his stead.” 

“Like a regent?”

“Exactly.” He sighed.

She sipped her wine again. “I worry you are taking on too much, and I do hope you grace does not mind me saying so.”

Arthur’s browns furrowed as he spooned some soup into his mouth, what could she mean?

“Between your responsibilities in Wales and the affairs of the kingdom… I do not want you to feel the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“I have men in Wales who I trust to see to my responsibilities there.” He looked up from his soup to Catherine. “Though, your concern does…” Touch me? It seemed too sentimental. “Thank you.”

“It is only my wifely duty to be concerned.”

He swallowed, “Yes, of course.” Sometimes he did almost forget they were married. She seemed so much a friend as well as an object of untouchable infatuation. Moreover, the hint of wifely duty always made him think of their duty to one another, and their kingdom, to produce an heir.

When they had both finished with their supper she stood and led him to a cushioned bench which stood before the fire. “Oh, do be so good as to bring that candelabra.” She said, after she had taken her seat. “I think it is too dim here without it to read.”

Coming back from the table with the candelabra in hand, Arthur watched as the approaching light fell across Catherine’s features, bathing her skin in a warm glow. She turned to face him over the back of the bench, and the light caught her blue eyes and set them to dazzling. “Thank you.” She said.

As he set the candles on the low table before them Catherine produced her Bible and began flicking through the pages to the appropriate passage. “Ah ha, here, Romans 13.”

They moved closer to one another, Arthur bending down to peer at the page, and Catherine sliding her whole body towards his. He could feel her leg against his as she brought the book, with its cramped handwritten Latin words, close enough so he too could see. 

“Could you read it to me?” She asked, and he craned in even closer, all too aware of her presence.

He read the passage aloud, but barely comprehended the very words he said. Her closeness was utterly distracting. He could think of nothing more than what the smooth skin of her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, would feel like under his fingertips. From time to time the sheen of her hair would catch his eye and he had to will himself not to look up from the page. At long last, Arthur realized, he had come to the end of the passage.

“Do not you find it most edifying?” She asked.

He hastily glanced back at the page open before him and scanned a sentence or two to pick up the general idea of the passage. Kingship and divinely placed rulers and people being called to obey those God had placed over them. “Yes, most edifying.” He could feel her peering up at him, and just glanced down at her. “Thank you, Princess Catherine, for calling it to my attention.”

“Can you see how it is applicable to the very situation you find yourself in, your grace?” She asked, and took the Bible from his hands, her fingers brushing his in the act. “It says ‘Do you want to be free from fear of the one in authority? Then do what is right and you will be commended.’”

Arthur rubbed his nose absentmindedly. “But what is ‘right’? Princess, it is not so easy, you see.”

“I suppose,” She began hesitantly, “that since ruling is left to the discretion of the divinely ordained ruler, what is right and wrong would also be in his discretion also.”

“Are you saying that so long as I do what my father would approve of, I should not live in fear of his wrath?” He watched her nod, and he leaned against the back of the bench. “My father will not be happy to discover what I have done or how I plan to continue. But I think he would see the good in it. His only care, outside of our family, was ever for the good of England.”

Catherine’s smile grew slowly. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“But should I tell him now, or…” He looked over to see Catherine shaking her head in dissent. “You are…” Arthur grinned despite himself, “too good at this.”

This seemed to please her rather a great deal, for she took to blushing and concealing her smile behind her hand. “I cannot take the credit your grace, I am simply an instrument pointing you to the answers God has already given us in his word.” 

“Yes I suppose,” He concurred, “but you are a rather clever instrument.”


	3. Eltham

The snow had melted. The landscapes were restored to their drab wintry attire of naked branches and dead greenery. Gone was the white quilt that had covered the land, and with it the silver lacing that had hung from every bough and ledge. Small assemblies of snow still clung to places always covered by shadow, but predominantly the threat had passed. The sun shone weakly in the short hours it claimed the sky during these brief days, and on the fine days Arthur often could be found in the garden for at least an hour, making the best of the weather.

Catherine would fuss if she saw him going out. It was not so long ago, she would remind him, that he had taken ill and had nearly departed this world. Always she was urging him to wear another layer, take a warmer hat, stay outside for less time. She had taken to inspecting his outerwear for deficiencies whenever she chanced to be in his apartments.

While his well-being was probably a legitimate interest to her, since he was the one who gave her status in this land, Arthur thought that perhaps she had long since bored of her life at court. He spent many hours about his father’s business and had sparse time to devote to her. Certainly she did not crave his attention, but rather something to occupy her mind. Accordingly, he had bought her a fine horse as a gift.

Lady Margaret had cautioned that it was something of an extravagant gesture, but he had explained it away as a late birthday gift. “Perhaps, the princess desires a break from court life, as all do from time to time.” His grandmother had suggested, innocuously.

And so it was that Arthur found himself on the barge that lovely Saturday afternoon, floating up the Thames with Catherine. She was enthralled by the world around them, content to sit and watch the scenery go by as they were paddled up-river. Arthur had chosen to keep the location of the trip a secret, though Catherine had pleaded with him marvelously to try and find out where they were going. They had packed relatively lightly for the brief, two night stay. Arthur had been reluctant to leave court himself, but he was eager to see the princess’s spirits lifted.

They docked at Greenwich and rode for the remainder of the way, shadowed as always by a small retinue. Though it was something of a short journey, it was enough to get them outside of London proper and out into the country. As they neared the palace the tops of the turreted towers of Eltham could be seen peeking above the tree cover that thickly surrounded the relatively remote estate. The path twisted around a bend to reveal the outer wall that surrounded the palace, and beyond, the first true glimpse of the royal residence.

Arthur glanced sidelong at Catherine, atop her gifted horse, a long-legged bay with a smooth gait. From behind the fur-lined hood of her cloak, drawn up over her ears and laying low over her forehead, he could make out her profile. Her rounded nose was pink at the tip, as were the apples of her cheeks, above them her blue eyes glistened. For the first time in weeks she looked alive.

“Welcome to Eltham Palace.” He said, watching for her reaction.

In an instant her expression changed. She brought a gloved hand to her cheek, and her eyes widened. “Oh, are we come to see your brother and sisters, your grace?” 

He nodded. “I thought you would enjoy a change of scenery, and the diversion of different companions.”

It was with eagerness that she agreed with him, “I have not seen the children this whole month, but then, it was only on the saddest of occasions. I shall be quite content to see Margaret and Mary under these happy circumstances.”

“And they shall be quite delighted to see you as well, princess. Of that I am quite sure.” His two younger sisters were enamored of Catherine, a foreign, elegant, well-read princess. Arthur had urged Catherine once or twice to write to the girls, but she always demurred, not believing that she had made an impression on them that would warrant letter writing.

Once inside the prince and princess were shown to their shared apartments. Stepping into the rooms Arthur dropped his cloak over a chair and crossed to where his chests stood open by one wall. He had packed away some work he hoped to accomplish over the few days they were there, and he wanted to make sure they the packet of papers were not in sight.

“I uh…” Catherine began, as she leaned against her own chest, “I cannot wait to see your dear sweet sisters and brother.”

“Nor can I.” He stuffed the leather parcel down under some of his clothing. “Though I rather suspect they are in lessons at the moment.”

She unfastened the pin at the neck of her fur-lined cloak and Arthur came around to help lift the heavy garment from her shoulders. “Thank you.” He watched as she opened an enamel box and dropped the broach inside. In the brief moment it took to do so, Arthur could see that the box was stuffed with jewels and gold and silver. Such things were her joy, and purchasing them was her weakness. Her household finances and spending habits had been worrying Arthur for some time now, but he was unsure of how to broach the subject with her.

“I should probably…” She looked down at her gown covered in a fine layer of road dust, and bit her lip, “I should probably change.”

Arthur nodded hastily, backing away from her, “And I should probably ask after the children. Should I send in a maid to aid you?” 

“Thank you.”

The halls of Eltham were not as wide as those at Westminster, but the smaller palace had an airy lightness to it. Maybe the impression could be ascribed to the fact that the retreat was not encumbered with the cares of the world just beyond it. Eltham was out of the way, secluded, and above all, tranquil. Coupled with the relatively short distance to London, it was the perfect escape. His siblings’ presence was an added bonus.

Arthur had never been particularly close to his other siblings. He had been raised apart from them, in another residence with separate studies and a completely different lifestyle. He knew his siblings well however, well enough to know that Margaret was his father’s daughter and Mary was his mother’s, and to know that he and Henry would never see eye to eye.

Mary and Margaret were easy to locate, for the music that emanated from their nursery had led him to them. Within he found the girls each seated on a stool, Margaret’s face screwed up in concentration as she forced her lute to make the proper sounds, and Mary looking rather bored as she hammered out the beat of the music on a small drum. Their instructor, an older, elegant looking woman, looked on with pride at her handiwork. Margaret’s playing had improved since he had last seen her, though she never seemed content with her own abilities and always claimed she could play better with even further practice. 

The room was a tall, well lit room, with long narrow windows overlooking the garden beyond, in the summer the blooms just outside were fairly spilling into the room. The floor had been covered with an old blue and gold rug, still magnificent despite its faded pattern, and on the wall hung paintings the girls had attempted alongside masterful tapestries. 

Just then his sisters spied him and each gave a shy wave. He returned the gesture before stepping back out into the hallway. He did not aim to disturb them, but rather to check on them. The room where Henry took his lessons was nearby, but Arthur heard no sounds from within. Upon cracking the door he discovered that indeed, there was no one within. 

It was down in the yard that Arthur found his younger brother, Henry, seated atop strong looking horse, a bow in one hand and quiver slung across his back. He watched as the boy, as yet unaware of his presence, kicked his steed into a gallop before he began shooting at various targets while moving. Henry loosed close to a dozen arrows in his pass, a few finding their target while others had strayed into the hedges. Trotting back to where he had begun his run, Henry spied his brother and lifted a gloved hand in greeting.

Arthur joined Henry’s tutor waiting with some servants at the same spot Henry had begun his run. The elderly, frail looking man was stood beside a rather larger, gruffer looking man who Arthur could only assume was some sort of master at arms. The prince himself had given up in warriorly pursuits when he found they simply did not suit them. His father was also of the mind that such activities were not strictly necessary for the prince.

“Opus bonum instructus.” The tutor called, when Henry was in ear shot.

“Gratias magister.” The boy sounded a little winded. “Spero continue emendare.” He turned his attention to his older brother. “Salve frater. Video vos incolumes pervenirent. Sit laus Deo.”

Arthur was surprised at how easily his brother could converse in Latin, he had certainly surpassed the level of comprehension expected in boys his age. “Etiam. Gratias autem Deo.”

Henry winked at Arthur before his dismounted and abruptly segued in to French. “J'espère que votre épouse, Catherine, est également arrivé en bonne santé. Je me suis arrangé pour un grand dîner pour nous ce soir.”

“Oui, Catherine est en bonne santé.” He responded. “Merci pour votre hospitalité.”

Henry embraced his brother, and Arthur could not help but notice how long legged the boy had become. Certainly a growth spurt was in store for the twelve year old. “Let’s go inside, I have been at this for at least two hours now.” The boy was all ruddy cheeks and bright eyes.

Returning to the home they were trailed by Henry’s tutor and a few servants, while the master at arms and a few others had been left to clear the yard of the arrows and butts, and return the horse to the stables. “I was concerned to see you out here, Henry, on such a cold day, when you should be inside working at your studies.”

Henry all but rolled his eyes, “But there is so much more to do outside. Besides, who says one cannot learn out of doors.”

“I hope you are taking your studies seriously.” Arthur looked down at his brother with the same stern glance his father had admonished him with on more than one occasion. 

There was something of a rebellious flash in his eye as he wrinkled his nose and turned his face away from his older brother. “I do take them seriously. I just do not study the same way you do.”

Arthur sighed, “Go inside and get cleaned up.” Once the young Prince was out of sight Arthur turned his attention to the elderly scholar. “Tell me about the Prince.”

The man clutched his cloak tighter around his frail frame against the gusting wind and fell into step with Arthur. “Prince Henry is a bright boy, very capable. I have a hard time getting him to sit still, learning seated at a table is a near impossibility for him. So we have had to be creative with his lessons.”

“Tell me more.” Arthur prompted.

“He used to take his exercise in the mornings, then join me in the study for his lessons in the afternoon. But that did not last long. Now we learn out of doors most days. I will teach him while we ride in the park, or instruct him with books in the garden. Today we practiced languages while he engaged in martial training.”

It was hard to imagine the feeble old man trailing around with his rambunctious brother, attempting to educate him amidst Henry’s spritely antics. The man looked more suited to a library than the back of a horse, but he supposed the scholar was doing his best to find a way to reach a teachable mind. “I am sorry for any trouble my brother gives you.” 

“Not at all, your grace.” The man smiled to himself. “Prince Henry is an intelligent boy, quite bright, and possessed of a singular ability to retain any scrap of knowledge. I fear his penchant for constant activity is his one insatiable vice.”

“Thank you for being so diligent with him.”

Supper was served in the hall that evening, and there Arthur and Henry met with Mary, Margaret, and Catherine. The three girls were easy to compare, all dressed in deep blue gowns to signify their mourning. 

Mary, nearly seven years old, was the youngest. A slender girl with a pleasant face and vivacious manner, she was more akin to Henry than she was to Arthur in temperament. It was clear she would grow into a great beauty, and with such a pleasing manner she would make an excellent wife.

Margaret, named for her grandmother, was a tall, plump girl of thirteen on the verge of womanhood. She had grown into a quiet, sweet, and serious young woman. Arthur had to actively remind himself that his younger sister was no longer a child, but was in fact the Queen of Scots, following her proxy marriage to James that January. 

Only a few years older than Margaret, Catherine somehow gave the impression of being far more mature than the other two girls. Perhaps it was her bearing, or perhaps the few years did really make some kind of difference. 

They seated themselves at the table and Henry prayed over their meal. He seemed to be regarded as the head of the household in this home, even by Henry himself. 

“I heard you girls playing this afternoon. Queen Margaret, you really seem to have mastered the lute.” Arthur said as he was served a cut of beef.

“Thank you, your grace.” She said somewhat sheepishly as she reached for her cup.

“Too bad all your talents will be wasted on such a savage as the King of Scots.” Henry quip, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. Margaret and Henry were close in age but very different minded, a situation which had caused much strain on their relationship; for Henry dearly loved to antagonize his sister, and Margaret sister in turn was quick to rebuke her younger brother.

Margaret’s cheeks burned with indignation. “King James keeps a very cultured court, is fond of scholarly pursuits, and is a great patron of the arts.”

Henry rolled his eyes and mimed Margaret speaking.

“If you want to act childish I will have you sent to your nursery to take supper with your maids.” Arthur hissed to his brother, half-tempted to rap the boy’s knuckles. He had always had little patience for his younger brother’s obnoxious manners and ostentatious demeanor, though his parents had always been all too willing to indulge the scamp.

“Princess Mary was showing me her drawings before supper, your grace. She is quite the accomplished artist.” Catherine said, attempting to delicately diffuse the tension around the table. “She has quite the eye for composition and the skill to meet her vision.” 

Mary sat between Catherine and Margaret, beaming with pride. “Perhaps I will have occasion to sketch your likeness while you are visiting.” She ventured with caution.

Princess Catherine cast a sidelong glance at Arthur. “I would be honored to sit for you.”

“And Arthur too!” Mary added, upon catching the look between the couple.

Arthur nodded as the small fragment of a family lapsed into silence. There were unasked questions that begged answers. Certainly the children all wanted to remember their mother together, but it was too painful to raise the subject. And even more so, Arthur was sure they were curious as to their father’s condition. Even Eltham, remote and tucked away in the trees, was not impervious to rumors. There was no question that the younger three children had heard tell of the depths of their father’s grief and his seclusion by choice.

“What are your plans while staying here?” Margaret asked suddenly, and Arthur was relieved that there was some new topic to embark on.

“We came as a respite from court life. A time of relaxation and diversion was the aim.”

“If diversion is the order of the day,” Henry said, motioning for a second helping of beef, “Perhaps I can arrange a small hunting party for us tomorrow.”

“And would the ladies be encouraged to join us?” Arthur asked, he had no notion of whether or not Mary and Margaret enjoyed hunting, though he knew Catherine relished the sport.

Henry for his part seemed to revel in the deference his brother had given him, “My sisters are always welcome to join.”

****

Dense fog lay over the clearing like a thick blanket, bogging down the tall grass and clinging to the hills that rose up from the valley like the shoulders of a giant. A profound silence hung over the area, an unaware and wayward hart had wandered in to lap at the brook that marked the low of the basin. Separated from her herd, the lonely creature had become the target of the princes’ attention and arrows.

Beside him, Henry’s breaths were long and deep as he held bow to arrow, unnotched. The girls had happily agreed to tarry with their horses a half a mile back, in a meadow where they had found the ruins of an ancient stone house. Henry had led Arthur to the spot with ease, for he knew the basin was a prime lure for prey with its cool brook and normally lush grass. Hidden in the trees on the slope of the hill, they could go undetected with even the most basic precautionary measures.

Together they watched the scene unfold before them, as stony and silent as statues. The hart crept through the grass, head held high, in search of her party by sight, scent, and sound. She was well formed and elegant, with a long neck and a pale tawny coat. Her belly was white and downy, and a white blaze on her crown curled around the backs of her ears to crest them with a halo. She picked her way cautiously through the brush and undergrowth to the trickle of water.

The hart dipped its head to drink from the brook and Henry loosed his arrow before Arthur even knew it was notched. At the same moment a mature stag leapt into the clearing and Arthur immediately devoted his attention to the animal, firing at it instinctively. His arrow struck the stag in the rump, but it continued on nearly unencumbered.

Henry, alert to the situation, also fired an arrow, striking the animal in nearly the same spot his brother had. In the meantime, Arthur had notched yet another arrow, and sent it sailing into the beast’s chest. The stag stumbled a further few paces before it came to fall in the tall, ochre grass.

“Well done.” Henry said, standing.

“We took it together.” Arthur deflected some of the praise back onto his brother as he waived to their attendants to accompany them out to their kills.

The hart was a great kill, and Henry declared he would make a rug of her hide after they supped on her that evening, as their men carried the animal off. When they came upon the stag the princes counted the points of his antlers and took stock of the hardiness of the beast. 

“Quite the trophy, brother.” Henry said, with a hint of jealousy lacing his words. There was no doubt his competitive brother would have like to have claimed the kill for himself, though they both knew it was credited to the elder of them. “If I were you I would have the head stuffed and mounted on the wall in my castle. Don’t you think it would look impressive with its great antlers there in your hall in Ludlow?”

Arthur watched as a band of men hoisted the stag up from the ground and carried it off. “Indeed.” He made a motion to their serving men and the troop went on ahead of them back across the clearing and up the side of the hill.

“Henry, I think we should talk.” He said, stepping across the brook as his brother sloshed through it in his hall boots. “Man to man.”

Henry immediately became subdued, and merely nodded. There was no one around to put on a show for now, and his attitude had changed dramatically.

“You seem… restless, if you do not mind my saying.”

“You would be too, were you locked up in a country residence with only girls and servants for company.” The boy mumbled.

“You have your tutor.” Arthur reminded him.

“I do. And I do love to learn. But brother…” He sighed and looked up at Arthur, “I fear I have reached my limit with him, and that there is no further instruction he can offer me.”

The prince was surprised to hear Henry say so and fairly stopped in his tracks. “I do not understand.” He said after a moment.

Henry took up the trail again, “Father and I came to the conclusion in January that the man has taught me all he knows. I would converse with him as an equal to find deeper meaning in the subject he has instructed me in, but my tutor will not engage me and cannot be prodded to think on a higher level about a matter than he has already reached. In short, he has nothing further to offer me and I can find no challenge from him. At least, not any challenge he is willing to engage in.”

“And so you fear you mind stagnates?” Arthur asked.

Henry nodded dolefully. “I do not say such things as a boast, but rather as a statement of fact. Father, in his letters to me, reached a similar conclusion.”

Arthur did no doubt Henry’s claim that he was loathe to consider his statements a boast. In fact what the boy said took both courage and perception. Perception which too often escaped men, let alone boys. “What was his solution? To find a new tutor?”

A look of disgust appeared on the boy’s face, dark and alien to his normally joyful features. “His solution was to arrange for me to study with the Church.”

“To become a man of God?”

Henry nodded, “He envisions me, I believe, as a Cardinal one day.”

Clearly the thought did not please Henry. And Arthur could not blame him. His brother was not suited to such a life, there was no denying it. It was an ill-conceived notion, as far as the prince could see, and he could only guess at the conclusions his father had drawn which had prompted him to such an unseemly plan. “Did father suggest any other solutions?”

“No.”

“Are there any alternate solutions you think merit consideration?” They had reached the edge of the wood now, and were soon enveloped in its deep shade.

His younger brother trod in contemplation, the only sound the breaking of twigs underfoot. Looking down at the path he was forging up the hillside, among the stands of trees, Henry said “Yes, and I think it is the same solution you also arrived at some time ago.”

“Tell me.” Arthur said, stilling his brother with a hand on his shoulder. He did not doubt that Henry had indeed figured out his own thoughts on the matter, but he did wish to hear the boy say it aloud.

“To come back to court with you, to learn from you, to learn from society.” He locked eyes with Arthur, finding affirmation that he was correct Henry continued, “To employ your tutors and to begin managing my own estates.”

Arthur nodded, satisfied that the boy’s knack for perception had not failed him. “And when do you think I formulated such an idea.”

Here Henry faltered. He seemed to begin forming an answer, then stalled mouth agape. “I am not sure.”

It was good to hear his brother admit that there were some things he did not know, to know that the boy was not too arrogant to speak the truth. He clapped Henry on the shoulder and moved on up the hillside, the younger prince climbing in his brother’s shadow cast by the sun descending from its apex.


	4. Hopes & Fears

How could there possibly be so many things going on in the world that needed his immediate attention? The French begged this, the Spanish demanded that, the Scots threatened the other. Not to mention the favors his nobles requested and the thought his own kingdom required. How had his father managed all this?

The council, it was obvious, was there to help, but only to an extent. They could give him advice and information, but he was the one who had to make all the decisions. The easy, the hard and the unpopular alike.

“Your highness,” A stout, older man, with a somewhat untidy beard stood at the council table and Arthur made motion to recognize the lord. “I do not wish to be an impertinence or to reiterate things that have already been said, but the king of Scots grows ever more impatient.”

He had been naïve to think that a hand penned message to the sovereign would placate him. All the same, he was annoyed with the other King’s pressing. “What is the cause of my brother’s impatience?” Arthur hoped the fraternal address would mask his ire.

“The King of Scots fears that neither your father nor you will make good on the Treaty of Perpetual Peace.”

“Were not his grace and my sister wed in London only this December past?”

“Indeed,” The barrel-chested man agreed, “However, the king is impatient for his bride to join him in the North. And so King James is, even this day, on his way to London to meet with you.”

Arthur had a feeling the impromptu visit had less to do with adoration of his sister and more to do with a curiosity directed at himself. The King of Scots would, naturally, want to come and size up the interim leader of the neighboring kingdom. “We will be glad to receive his grace.” Arthur said and shuffled the meeting along to the next matter of business.

“What of my brother’s marriage? As we are so fond of speaking of marriages today.” Arthur suggested, not a little facetiously. The task of suggesting suitable brides for the young Duke of York had proved to be quite challenging for the councilors. In the nearly three months he had been running state affairs there had not been a single young lady brought forth who was a seemly bride.

“The Duke of Burgundy has a young daughter, just the Duke’s age, who is quite a gem. Suzanne de Bourbon, is her name.” Suggested Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland.

“But,” intoned Richard Foxe, “She is to receive the Duchy of Burgundy one day, her and whatever young man she marries. It would be quite the impossibility for her to be both Duchess of York and Duchess of Burgundy,” he looked to Arthur at the head of the table, “would it not, your grace.”

“Of course.” It would indeed. He could not have her or his brother's loyalties split, especially with France. “Are there any other suitable young ladies?”

Men tentatively brought names to the table, and maybe a brief description, but each girl was rejected swiftly for one reason or another.

“I have a young lady in mind. The idea was given to me by the Countess of Richmond.” Arthur said, folding his hands in his lap. The name had been brought up at some earlier date, but had been rejected by councilors by reason of England’s tumultuous relationship with France. “Marguerite d'Angoulême.”

“King Louis would never agree to such a match!” Henry Percy quickly exclaimed.

“I think you will find,” Arthur said, “given our alliances with Spain and Scotland through marriage, that Louis would be wise to take the olive branch.”

“Your grace,” Foxe looked about to ask a question, but Arthur did not give him the opportunity.

The Prince stood, effectively marking the end of their session together. “Find out everything you can about Louis’ niece, I expect a report outlining her amiable qualities and any pitfalls of the alliance I may not have already discovered.”

Only after he had made it into his private rooms did the gangly youth allow his squared shoulders to fall. Playing king was harder than he ever thought it would be. In his own mind the few months he had been taking care of his father, and the kingdom, had aged him years. He collapsed into a chair and allowed the spring breeze from the open window bath him as he removed his robe and jacket to sit in his shirt and breeches.

There was a rustle in the room and Arthur nearly sprang from the chair. The four poster bed on the far wall was not made, as it usually was by late afternoon. Or rather, it was un-made. The rich blue cloth of gold coverlet had been kicked to the bottom of the bed. A lone figure lounged among the downy white sheets, pillows, and covers. The face of the intruder hidden by the covers of a book grasped by two familiar, supple hands. 

“Catherine?” Arthur asked as he stalked closer.

The intruder lowered the book slowly, revealing her identity. “I am so very sorry, your grace.” She said, biting her lip.

“What are you doing here in the middle of the afternoon?” Normally she was playing cards with some of the ladies, or else taking some exercise, or playing her music, or some other seemly activity for a princess. What was she doing holed up in his apartment by herself?

“I did not think you would be back until later, and I…”

He looked at the book in her hand, it was one of his own. “Do you read my books?”

She stood abruptly, “Yes, I am, your grace.”

Arthur knew they were married and that it should not irritate him, but he was so intensely private by nature. What right did she have to come into his rooms and help herself to his private library? It felt like an intrusion.

“You are angry with me.” She observed with hesitation, her eyes falling from him to the floor. “I apologize, your grace. However, I have read all my own books.”

He paced back to his chair, his back to her. “Then order more.”

Catherine was quiet for a long moment, before she gave the response they both knew she was bound to give. “I have spent all of my allowance at the moment.”

“On jewelry and fabric and baubles, no doubt.” He sulked. “I fail to understand how a girl as bright as you can fail to be economical.”

This seemed to both wound her and raise her hackles, for she threw the book on the bed and made for the door. “I was raised a princess not a financier, your grace, forgive me if I am not a mathematician.”

“Come now, Princess,” Arthur smiled in spite of himself, “You know very well the state of your finances. I think you are bright enough to think I can be coerced into increasing your allowance or covering your expenses.”

The taught line of her lips and the defiant flash in her light blue eyes was all the answer he needed. “I will share my library with you, if you will tell me this: you could have snatched the book and returned peaceably to your own rooms to read, I would not have discovered the theft for some time, but instead you chose to stay here in my apartment; why?”

The princess sighed, “I can always be found in my rooms, by anyone. When I wish to read, I wish to be quite alone.”

“I thought women liked to be in one another’s company?” If Arthur could have smacked himself upside the head, he would have. What did he know of women?

“Women can be… so dull. All the women here at court ever want to do is play and make music, and gamble.”

“And what about the gossip, is that dull too?”

“Gossip has its own place. But I wish to learn, to be educated, to understand ruling. Like my mother, like your father,” she paused, “Like you.”

The last part surprised Arthur. Was she being genuine, or was she flattering him, manipulating him. He had to be careful when he knew how whip-smart she was and how clever she could be. “I think you greatly misunderstand me, for I have but a limited knowledge.”

She smiled sweetly and their conversation stalled. “Tell me,” Arthur stood and went to the hutch to pour some wine, “Will you join me here after supper to play at cards?”

“If you wish, your grace.”

After Catherine had left Arthur changed back into his clothes and slipped out of his rooms. He had never been close to his father, or at least, he had never been so close as he was now. Growing up, Arthur had been relegated to his own home with his own household, away from his parents and his siblings. This was the way princes were raised in England, he had been told. He had been sent off to Wales, far from family, and his visits with family were few and far between. After his mother’s death, though, everything had changed.

His visits to see his father were frequent now, especially as they inhabited the same palace, for once. Arthur made a point of it to see his father as often as he could. He and his grandmother were diligent in looking after him and ascertaining his health from his physicians. Unfortunately, the king had made little progress in the few months since he had lost his queen. He remained gaunt and weak, with a persistent cough.

Always their visits were confined to his stately apartments. Arthur had suggested once that the air outdoors would be good for him, even if the king merely sat in a chair rather than walking the gardens. However Lady Margaret had reprimanded the prince, claiming there were evil airs about in London, and that such an activity as sitting out of doors would surely kill the king.

All the same, no ointment, poultice, salve, potion, or prescription seemed to bring reprieve to the ailing king who looked much older than his 46 years.

Arthur found the king, his father, huddled in a chair by the fire, his eyes fixed on the flames. He had not heard his son enter. For a moment Arthur studied the changes in the man. Gone were his fine clothes, he had wrapped himself in a midnight blue robe, old worn out slippers on his feet, his only adornment was his monarchal ring. Weariness tugged at his very features, gathering his face into lines and wrinkles, while time itself had brushed the gray into the hair at his temples. The fire reflected dully in his eyes, eyes which saw but did not comprehend. The real king was lost now.

Stepping from the shadows Arthur made sure his footsteps were heavy enough to announce his presence. His father started, his eyes darting quickly to his son. 

“I hope I am not intruding…” Arthur said, even though he had promised his father only yesterday that he would join him for supper. Much as he hated seeing his father waste away into total disrepair, suppers were always the hardest. The king would only pick at his food and had become a poor conversationalist. Many subjects were taboo now, and as the king was anything but well informed and Arthur did not wish to trouble him with current affairs, their discussions over supper were terribly dull. 

Tonight was like any other evening, there was little talk, which was led primarily by Arthur. He gave him vague updates while avoiding politics, repeating court gossip and general talk. “King James is to visit soon.” He mentioned.

“James?” Henry moved some peas about his trencher with the flat of his knife. “What does he want?”

“Well… Margaret, I presume.”

“Hmmm… is that so?” This seemed to preoccupy the king for a moment. “Let him take her.”

“B – But –“ That was not at all how he had felt only a few month prior, or at least it was not how his mother had convinced him to feel. “I thought you were of the mind she was too young?”

“Let her go while I live yet.”

The king’s own sense of his mortality rather shocked Arthur, his father had never hinted at thinking his death was imminent. A part of him wanted to assure his father that he had plenty of time left, years even, but he knew they were hollow words. The king was failing to improve and the physicians had speculated that he had the consumption.

“I will make arrangements for her departure, then.” Arthur responded uncertainly.

“Son,” the king leaned back in his chair, having eaten only a meager serving of pork and bread, “I know what you have been doing.”

“What I have been doing?” Since when did he have enough presence of mind to be concerned with the goings on?

The older man let his eyes return to the blaze in the hearth, Arthur wondered what it was he saw when he stared into the embers. “Your grandmother told me. I know you have a deal together, but I asked and she would not lie to me.”

No longer interested in his own food, Arthur pushed his plate away, readying himself to the defense his father was sure to demand from him. “I will not apologize, if that is what you are expecting. I do not seek your throne, I only meant to safeguard the throne and kingdom you worked so hard for, to preserve our dynasty. I can understand if you are disappointed with my presumption –“

“Disappointed?” King Henry’s eyes darted to him quickly, some flash of the flame held in them, like the old days, but only for a split-second. “How could I be disappointed with you? You have been discerning and calculating, I cannot harbor a grudge against you for that. You have made up for my short comings, and for that…” He looked away again, “For that I can only thank you. Hearing what you have done – what you are doing – has given me hope.”

This was not at all the response he had expected. Then again, his father was not himself. The ailment had laid him low, had distorted his body and his mind. “Thank you for your confidence in me.” Was the only response he could think to give.

Arthur left his father’s rooms more uncertain than ever. Hearing the king even mention his own demise had brought into his own mind the uncomfortable thought of the succession, of planning a funeral, of taking the throne, of having the full responsibility, of all the hard choices he had to make. Would it be tomorrow? Would it be next week? Would it be in 15 years? 

“There you are.” 

Wrenched from the flurry of thoughts that danced through his head, Arthur realized he was back in his apartments. Catherine was seated at the small round table, though now she was standing to give him a small curtsy. As always she addressed him formally, she always observed the tradition of rank. Even when they were alone, as they were now.

She was lovely, even in her pale violet, simple frock. Her hair had been gathered up into a net, having foregone a hood, and her only jewelry was a long slender chain with a medallion of some saint hanging from it. Clearly she had been thinking on their disagreement from earlier, for Arthur had never known her to dress so simply, especially in the evenings. Modesty and economy were virtues which did not come easily to her.

“I keep finding you here.” He teased, but there was little mirth in his tone.

Catherine’s brows knit above her fine, pale eyes. “Do not you remember inviting me to play cards only this afternoon, your grace?”

“Of course I do.” Arthur was careful to smile kindly at her as he seated himself at the table. “What is the game tonight, then?”

“Alouette.” She dealt the cards as he shrugged out of his jacket.

Catherine picked up her hand and fanned out the cards before her eyes, picking at them and rearranging them as she fancied.

“Tell me, princess, what do you know of…” He picked up his own hand and arrayed them, “of matchmaking.”

“Matchmaking? What, _les affaires de coeur_?” She fluttered her eyelashes marvelously to emphasize the joke, but Arthur briefly imagined she fluttered them at him; a notion he was somewhat embarrassed by, truth be told.

“I meant, er, politically, of course.” He played a trick and she flicked her eyes from the cards on the table to the ones in her hand, resulting in a frown.

“I assume you speak of your brother, the Duke of York, and Marguerite d'Angoulême.” She produced her own trick, trumping his.

A little flabbergasted, Arthur drew from the stack, “How could you possibly know?”

“How do you think, your grace?” She peeked over her cards, mischief in her eyes.

Contemplating his cards, Arthur hesitated before he played a new trick. “You must have some secret female comradery with my grandmother. Perhaps you plot together…” He grinned at her, “As women in this family have been known to do.”

It was with ease that she trumped his trick with one of her own. “Perhaps.” It was not agreement with his supposition, but rather an accord that it was a possibility.

“You think to best me at my own game, princess?” He asked, throwing down another trick, this time with more confidence.

“You forget, your grace, it was I who named the game.” Catherine took her time sorting through her hand, in absolutely no hurry to play off what he had thrown down. 

He watched her eyes flit from card to card. There was something playful about her this evening. She was not always thus, vexing and teasing him by turns. “Yes, but was it not I who taught you the very game?”

Catherine slid her trick onto the table, trumping his yet again. “Indeed. However, you cautioned me to practice, and so I have. As you can well see, your grace.”

Afraid his teasing would soon verge on ire, Arthur checked his annoyance as they played hand after hand. Was not her wit the very thing Arthur had always prized most about her, even above her beauty? She was more than a pretty companion, she would make a meet monarch and fine confidante even, if he ever let down his guard. “It appears you have beat me.” He announced when the game was over, sliding his chair away from the table.

“Oh, do take heart,” she stood and poured them both glasses of wine at the sideboard, “there are other games you can win at tonight.”

He watched her as she moved, covertly admiring her every motion, reveling in the tantalizing glimpse of the nape of her neck. He wondered idly what she thought of him – if she thought of him. Was he too tall, too slender, too quiet? Did she find him shy, agreeable, dull?

As she turned, cups in hand, Arthur fixed his eyes on the cards he was supposed to be shuffling. She approached and stood over his shoulder, but never placed his cup on the table. With only a little trepidation, he looked back over his shoulder at her. There was a smirk on her lips. “What?” He asked quietly.

“You think I do not see you… watching me?”

“Sorry?” He sputtered. How very eloquent.

“Always, you are looking.” Catherine finally set down the cup, “But you never do more than look.”

Surprised by the change of events, Arthur was of a half a mind to spring from his chair. “I am deeply sorry if I have offended you, princess.”

She came around to stand before him, “I am not offended. For I know you admire me, I have seen it in your eyes from time to time.” He was surprised that though her words were so confident, there was color rising in her cheeks, washing them a deep rose color under the freckles that dusted under her eyes and over the bridge of her nose. “However, I – I want you to do more than look at me.”

Arthur swallowed hard. How could she be so bold? He stood. “You do?”

The smile that tugged at her rosebud lips was almost sad. “Of course I do. You are my husband. I want to… please you.”

“You already do please me.” He reached out and took her hand experimentally. But when his eyes met hers he knew that was not what she had wanted to hear. “You please me so much, I hardly think myself worthy of you.” 

This brought a smile, a real smile, to her face.

Suddenly, instinctively, he bent down and brushed her lips with his. She did not edge away, and he was not content with just a mere peck. Courage rose in him, and he slipped a hand about her waist, pulling her small frame to him as he pressed his lips to hers, his heart beating furiously within him. Not one to be outdone, Catherine perched on tippy toe to kiss him back, fully, unabandoned.


	5. On the Cusp

She was beautiful, her head cradled in the crook of his arm, her cheek pressed to his chest, her lovely hair, a shade or two less red than his own, splayed about in wonderfully messy ringlets. He studied the curve of her plump, satisfied lip, the brush of closed lashes atop her cheeks, the sweep of her bare shoulder above the coverlet.

What had come over her the night before, he did not rightfully know. He could not even account for his own actions. Never had he been bold with her, never had he held her in his arms, never had he kissed her deeply. In truth he had only ever seen her as a companion, preferring to put off the idea of marriage and duty entirely, perhaps to be thought of at another time.

But if she had not been his wife before, surely she was now. Something had come over them both, and Arthur had thought himself drunk off of a heady combination of her coquettish words and his own thoughts. And maybe just a little from the heat of their fight earlier in the day.

His mind harkened back to how harsh he had been with her just the afternoon before, how he had reproached her for her spending habits and for intruding on his rooms. Something about the way she had fought back, something about the way she refused to behave as a docile lady, had caught him off guard. Truth be told, he found her defiance a little enticing, he was not sure why. Reason told him that he should not have tolerated her tone of voice or her disobedience, as her husband, but something deep down told him otherwise.

The other voice must have been looking out for him, for now he found himself abed with his wife. 

Things would change now. He knew. They had only ever had relations on their wedding night, and even then he was not entirely sure he had gone about the job quite right. In any case, the attempt had not produced an heir, but it had sealed a marriage, and that was all that mattered at the time.

It was only with a modicum of clumsiness that they had joined together the night before, apparently ardor made the task much simpler. In fact, it made it no task at all. 

But now he would have to face her in the light of day, and it would all be different. He seized the last moments of her slumber to memorize the content twist of her lip, the slope of her delicate nose, the serenity of her brow. 

“You are watching me again, your grace.” Her voice came sleepily with a lilting Spanish accent, her eyes still closed.

She shifted slightly and pressed a kiss to his jaw. 

“Arthur, you can call me Arthur.”

“Arthur,” her breath was warm on his neck, “Did you sleep well?”

He refrained from the impulse to pull her to him, to sweep her hair over her bared shoulder and kiss her. “Yes, and you, princess?”

She glanced up at the rich bed hangings and adopted a mock frown, “Not so well, there was this constant sound, like a pig…”

“Did I snore?” Arthur asked with disbelief sitting up a little

Catherine giggled and attempted to pull him back down, “You always have.”

“And you only think to mention it to me now?” He turned to one side, propped up by one arm and looked down at her.

Her blue eyes sparkled with mirth, “I do not mind it at all. Really.”

“So you seek then only to tease me?”

“You could use a good teasing.” She countered. “But now we must go to Mass.”

“Must we?” Arthur asked.

“What, would you prefer to stay here?” 

Unable to fight the urge any longer he dipped his head to meet her lips. “Yes.” He breathed, as he felt her fingers brush his cheek.

“Much as I would like to as well,” she managed to break away for a moment, “I do not think God will be inclined to bless our union if we do not attend Mass.”

It was with some difficulty that he admitted she was right and they got up from his bed. As she slipped on his robe over her shift Arthur covertly watched her, as he had for years.

She did not love him. Of course, love was not to be expected. He was not the prince she had imagined when she had left Spain, and she certainly was not attracted to him. That much he knew. It was an arranged marriage, she was just doing her best to uphold her end of the bargain. She was dutiful and pleasant and, he hoped, fertile. What more could he ask for? The trouble, really, was that he was rather infatuated with her. It was this unequal balance that worried him.

****

No, she did not love him, that much was clear to Arthur. This knowledge did not irk him, in spite of his continued fascination with her. Perhaps it was because she was dutiful, obedient, pleasant and, as it came to be known, pregnant.

The news had come as a welcome reprieve during a time when Arthur was much preoccupied by turns with his father’s health and with the preparations for James IV’s arrival. The king had seem to have taken a turn for the better for a few short days, almost a week even, but then had taken a chill and was prone to bouts of deep coughing. 

Arthur had ordered the court at Richmond prepared for the King of Scots arrival, for he could host the king in a grander fashion at the more modern palace. Furthermore, the location outside of London and the supreme parklands would showcase the very best of England to the neighboring king.

He could not long keep his wife’s condition a secret from his father, whose countenance had brightened considerably when he relayed the information. “Another generation of Tudors.” He had said almost dreamily before he kissed his son’s hands.

Before repairing for Richmond Palace, Arthur summoned his siblings from their nursery at Eltham to court at Westminster Palace. It was a place they were seldom invited to, only on great occasions were they permitted to make an appearance.

When was the last time they had all been together like this, he wondered as they filed into his father’s apartments one rainy afternoon. Certainly not his mother’s funeral, for neither he nor his siblings were permitted to attend, and it was not seemly for his father the king to take part either. Had the family last been united at he and Catherine’s wedding? Perhaps.

Mary grasped Catherine’s hand, he noticed, as they passed within. No doubt the small girl was afraid of the condition she would find her father in. And rightfully so, for he had made sure to include a brief update on their father’s condition in his summons.

They had taken the king quite by surprise. Arthur, after consulting with his grandmother, had decided not to ask his father’s permission. No doubt the king would have refused the interview and would have taken steps to prevent it, which would have been a grave mistake on their father’s part. This was the mistake Arthur had decided to head off. His siblings may very well never have the opportunity to see their father again. He did not want to expose them or his father to that risk.

They found him propped up in his great bed, the coverlet smoothed out and drawn up to his chest. His hair, graying at the temples, had been pulled back from his face and tamed into a small knot at the back of his head. There was a slight milky cast to his gray eyes, a sign, his grandmother said, of the process of losing one’s sight. Perched on the edge of the bed, a glass jar in her hand, was Lady Margaret applying a salve to the king’s temples with her arthritic fingers.

The king looked better than he had in months, no doubt Lady Margaret had taken great pains to see to his appearance and condition that afternoon. She and Arthur had discussed the fact that this would very likely be the last time his children saw him and that he did not want his father’s condition to shock them.

Moving toward the bed, Arthur allowed the others to hang back in the shadows. “Father, I have come. We are for Richmond soon to meet with King James.” He stood at the head of the bed, a hand on the curved and polished wood post.

“Who is that there?” Henry asked, nodding his chin towards the door. “You come not alone, son.”

He swallowed, “You are correct, father.”

“Is that…” he bit his lip and squinted, his eyes searching the shadows. “Oh, I don’t know-”

His namesake stepped forward, “It is I father, your boy Hal, I and my brother and sisters.” Little Henry joined his older brother at the head of the bed so his father could better see and hear him.

Arthur waved the others to come closer as well.

“You… you’re-you’re supposed to – oh, Arthur, what is the meaning of this?” There was ire in his voice, but not enough.

“They have come to see their papa.”

“Nonsense.” The king choked, “You have called them here. What were your intentions?’

Arthur sighed deeply, “To tell you plain, your grace, they have come to receive your blessing.”

The gray eyes now flashed something misty. The king was frequently the victim of his unbridled emotions these days. But he checked himself. “If you have come for my blessing, I will not begrudge you that, as I have been scarce able to deny any of you what you desired thus far, and indulge you far too often.” There was something of his old sense of humor in what he said.

They each kneeled in turn at his bedside, from youngest to oldest, so the king could cover their head with his hand and bless them. When it came to Arthur he declared him his son and heir and the next king of England, blessed him, then bid him lend an ear for a whispered conference.

“Learn, my son, in equal parts from my successes and my mistakes.” He said, clearing his throat. “Guard your trust jealously and be discerning. Look after your brother and sisters. And Hal, your brother, keep him as a close ally, for he is both clever and wily. Keep none closer than your wife, though, for she shall be your pillar and your respite. Do not underestimate her strength and cunning. I shall deliver my government into your hands soon, my son, I can feel it.” He gathered himself for a moment, his reserve of control nearly depleted, “You know the location of my Will. I trust you to execute it, and do not long mourn me.”

With that the king squeezed Arthur’s shoulder and the son stood.

“And now Catherine, whom I have loved as my own daughter,” Henry stretched out his hand to her as she approached, “Let me bless you and your unborn babe.” The king’s voice had grown raspy from over-use and Arthur could see the strain in his face, about his eyes and mouth and in the lines that creased his brow. The interview was taking its toll on the aged and ailing king, but Arthur did not regret it. That the king was not long for this world was plain.

When he had finished with Catherine and they surrounded his bed along with their grandmother, the king smiled his sad smile. “And so you all have my blessing, as in life you were a blessing to me, more precious and dear to me than anything I know.”

****

Richmond Palace rose like a beacon of modernity and civilization above the waters of the Thames. Having only been completed two and a half years ago, the palace was the absolute height of style in England. As they rowed in on royal barges, Arthur could not help but think that, with its many turrets and towers the palace looked like a city unto itself. Honeycombed with large windows over the river, which reflected the luxurious feature to great effect, the Venetian glass sparkled like the sun on the ripples in the water. That it had been a costly construction was plain on the face of the sprawling residence.

Had it really only been a year and a half ago that Margaret had been betrothed at Richmond to King James, by proxy? So much had happened in the short span that it now felt like a lifetime ago that he had stood by and watched the ceremony.

Now James had come to claim his bride, to whisk her off to Scotland.

Arthur had seen to the preparations. He had kitted out his little sister with a new wardrobe befitting her status as a queen, taking ques from his own mother’s wardrobe and spending ledgers. A new horse had also been picked out for her to take her on her journey north. For their stay at Richmond Arthur had contacted some of his mother’s former women to wait on Margaret, a summons which had been readily met.

The efforts had a great effect on his little sister, Arthur thought, as they stood on the lawns abutting the Thames the next day, waiting for James. In her new emerald green silk gown with black and silver ribbon trim Margaret looked slightly older and more elegant. Perhaps it was the cut of the gown. She had grown tall and lanky like Arthur and Hal. Their stature seemed to be a trait inherited from both their father and their mother, though those in her mother’s family tended to grow not quite so slender as the Tudors. In any case, Margaret looked more the young woman she was ought to be than ever before, and was even a thought pretty. Catherine had lent Margaret a selection of jewels from her collection for the visit, a gesture which had impressed and touched Arthur.

Impending motherhood seemed to become his wife, for Catherine, by some strange twist of fate, had grown rather more jovial than unpleasant by the ordeal. She looked healthy, and her already robust constitution had acquired a sort of palpable rather than visual glow. Arthur had urged her to take a more active role in directing his siblings’ households and lives. Such a request was met with only a demure smile and a nod of the head, but she had proved equal to the task his own mother had once overseen. He hoped he could entrust the matter of Hal’s marriage to her in due course.

But that was a matter to be dispensed with at a later date, for now was the time to see to Margaret’s future. 

A fleet of handsome barges were making their way towards the palace’s private dock at the bottom of the lawns. And though Arthur had never seen King James in the flesh he was easy to spot. Ambassadors had described him as well above average height with long brown hair and a dark complexion. “His grace is not exceptionally handsome, I’m told.” His father had once said as a private aside, “But I am assured he is neither exceptionally ugly. Which gives a man leave to wonder to which end of the scale he tends.”

And though such a statement had given Arthur reason to believe such a description was a kind way of imparting that one was rather more ugly than handsome, he now found that such a belief was unfounded. For the king was exactly as his father had said, neither handsome nor ugly. Had he not such fine clothes and many attendants one could have almost believed he was quite an ordinary man. Although there was something rather extraordinary in his bearing, a kind of innate confidence.

As the Scottish King stepped on to the dock Arthur approach to greet him. James opened his arms as if making for an embrace, but closed them when he saw Arthur just ducking into a bow. It was a small gaff on James’ part, but it had heavier implications. He could not greet Arthur as an equal while the latter was still but a prince.

“How good of you to come visit us, your grace.” Arthur said loudly.

“How good of you to host me and mine at your exceptional palace, dear prince.” The king gestured widely to the grand palace rising behind him. 

The two fell into step with one another, Arthur the younger, but much taller. The king was dressed in rather simple clothes of fine cloth and handsomely cut, but with no embellishment, no baubles or chains. He had a reputation as an intellectual and a lover of the arts, a reputation which almost outstripped his reputation as a prodigious lover of women. Almost.

“We have prepared a fine suite of rooms for you just beside the royal apartments, your grace. I hope you will be comfortable.”

“I do not doubt I shall be.” He strolled alongside the lanky prince. “And how does your royal father?”

Arthur hesitated for only a fraction of a moment. “His grace will not be joining us at Richmond. He is currently indisposed at the Palace of Placentia.” Arthur had ordered the King be moved from Westminster to a palace further outside of London, hoping the air quality would make a difference to his condition. The move had been something of an ordeal which was attended to with due care, but Arthur was willing to make the risk on the off-chance it should benefit the king’s health.

“I pray for his health daily.” James said.

“My thanks.” 

“And for the health of all the royal family.” His gaze had wandered and Arthur could easily trace them to Margaret.

“I see you have noticed your intended.” He tried to keep his tone light. With his reputation for taking lovers, and bastard aplenty already, it had proven a challenging subject of which to warn his well-bred, inexperienced, and sheltered sister. He hoped she understood his cautioning. But he rather did not much like the idea of this Scotsman laying eyes on her, nonetheless. 

“She is quite pretty,” He said in a low voice, “But, as I was warned, very young.”

“Yes, indeed, your grace.”

James hazarded a look at Arthur, “Does she take after her mother?”

It was an unexpected question, and quite a tender subject so soon. “Princess Margaret favors our royal father in, I believe, most all ways. Though she did inherit our mother’s aptitude for music, you shall find.”

“As you may well know, I have a particular ear and appreciation for music. I am glad to know Princess Margaret and I shall have some common ground. And how does the Princess like literature.”

They were close now to the others as they walked up the gentle slope of the verdant lawn. “Well enough. But, Princess Margaret has both an active mind and an active body. I dare say, she is never seated and still for longer than is strictly necessary.”

James’ smile was genuine. “I quite take your meaning. A spirited lass shall suit me well, for I lead and active life.”

Just then Margaret broke ranks to approach them, closing the small gap. It certainly was not the meek sort of behavior Arthur would have particularly encouraged, but he supposed there had been some influence on her in the matter. At any rate, the behavior did not seem to nettle the Scottish King, who rather unexpectedly bowed over her hand, greeting her as an equal before Margaret had the opportunity to curtsy.

Arthur caught Catherine’s attention over Margaret’s shoulder. Her cat like smirk of self-satisfaction confirmed what he already suspected while conveying her tacit approval of the King’s behavior.

“He is a most odd man.” Arthur surmised later while the court took rest before supper.

“Quite.” Catherine agreed from her position reclining on the bed, one hand on her pregnant stomach, the other containing a book of Latin verse. She was still dressed in her day gown, but had removed her hood and exchanged her shoes for a pair of soft slippers. Wisps of her strawberry blond hair fell about her face and fell over her shoulder in a less than tidy plait. In a moment her brow furrowed and she squirmed, but her eyes never wandered from the text before her.

Pausing over his correspondence to Wales, Arthur tapped his quill against his chin. “Are you alright?” He rather dreaded the answer. The pregnancy had been very much her affair and he had been content with that arrangement. Truth be told, he was still not a little in shock that she was going to have his child. Him. Gangly, awkward, aloof Arthur. It was even more surprising given that their relationship had returned to their platonic friendship of old.

“I am just a little…” She winced and moved to rest her weight on one hip, “a little discomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable.” He corrected her automatically.

Catherine’s eyes narrowed as she swung her head around to face him. “Lord…” she muttered.

Desperate to amend the burgeoning discord Arthur stumbled over himself to ask “Are you in any pain?”

“No, no, it is just a…”

He stood and she broke off for a moment.

“A funny feeling.”

“Oh.” He looked at his desk for some sort of silent aid. “Can anything be done for it?”

“No, I have been advised it is quite natural, and a good sign.” Though she returned her attention to her book Arthur did not look away. She was so beautiful, even now, with her round face, plump figure, and chubby hands. The added weight from the pregnancy had done nothing to diminish her looks. Not to him, at least. There was a sudden flicker of amusement on her face and her lip curved before she looked up from her text to see him still standing over his writing desk, gazing at her.

His face light up bright pink and he made to take his seat again and continue with his dispatch. But Catherine kept her eyes on him. With a lift of her hand and crook of her finger she beckoned him to her. And who was he to argue with this goddess? 

In confusion he came around to the grand four-poster bed. “Softly, your grace.” She patted the bed for him to sit and he did as bid. Reaching for his hand she grasped his wrist and moved his hand to the swell of her belly. “You see, it is a good thing.” Her voice as nothing but a whisper, almost garbled by her accent. 

Beneath his hand, and her gown, and even her stomach, there was movement.

“What do you think?” Her eyes looked up into his face, as if searching for some clue. For her own part her visage betrayed feelings of excitement and contentment. She was far more prepared for parenthood than he.

“I think it is… amazing.”


	6. The Thistle and The Rose

“You do not have to make an appearance at dinner if you do not wish to.” Arthur suggested lightly as he watched Catherine kick off her slippers, her tiny stockinged feet visible beneath the lifted hem of her gown.

Catherine rubbed her back as she stepped into her shoes, “And why would I not wish to go?” Even as she said it, her eyebrows arched together over her blue eyes and she inhaled sharply.

“Perhaps what you need now is rest…” He took up her hood from her dressing table to preoccupy himself.

“I can rest later.”

She was stubborn. Too stubborn. A knot of irritation began to tangle in the pit of his stomach. Why could not she just do as told? Why could not he simply tell her what to do, rather than phrase everything as a polite suggestion? “You need to take more care. Do not over work yourself, take this time to rest.”

“I will rest later, your grace.” There was a steely look in her eye which he rather disliked. A fire burned in the back of his throat, a reproach, a snarl, a quick witted but hurtful quip. He wanted to lash out, to tell her that she would do as he bid, and be an obedient wife. But, as always, he buried the urge. 

She seated herself at her dressing table, “May I have my hood?”

Handing it off he paced across the room to the hearth, “Shall I call your women to dress you?”

“Thank you, your grace, but there is no need. I just have a few odds and ends to do before I’m ready.” There was a slip in her normally gracious bearing as she lifted her arms over her head to pin up her braid. Her face puffed up and the motion looked awkward.

“Do you need some assistance?”

“I can do it myself, thank you.” There was that tone again. The coiled braid slipped from her fingers and she fumbled to wind it back up and press it to the nape of her neck.

Arthur watched her for a few more moments, as she struggled and failed over and over again in succession, before he rolled his eyes and came about to her. “Just let me –“

“I have a handle of it!” 

He stood behind her chair now. “Catherine, clearly you do not.” 

Her eyes darted to his in the mirror before her. Arthur averted his gaze. He rarely used her Christian name, and the emphasis it imparted was not lost on her. “Fine.” There was a rein on the word, as though she had rather wanted to bellow it. “Although I really do not think-“

“Please.” Picking up the long plait he twisted it into a coil which lay firmly against the back of her head. “Pin?”

Meekly she handed it back over her shoulder to him and he slipped it in. “A few more.” Carefully he arranged the pins to hold the hair in place. The action felt intimate, tender, almost loving if it had not had been for the tension betwixt them. She was a woman of many moods and motivations, given to vary as quickly as a bird in flight. “Hood?” Again the item was handed to him in silence and he placed it atop her head, careful to tie the ribbon underneath so it would stay put, his fingers brushing her neck in the action.

“Now I must put on some jewels.” She flipped open the lid on one of her boxes.

“Please do not bother yourself too much with your appearance, Princess.” Arthur said, once again taking up his post by the mantle. “Remember we want the attention on Princess Margaret tonight.”

“And cannot I make an attempt to look nice?”

“Of course, it is only…”

“Besides, I hardly think it likely King James would pay me any mind. But I would still like to dress in a way befitting of my station as Princess of Wales.” From her fingers dangled a chain on which hung a constellation of amethysts. “I know the King has a wandering eye, but I do not think my appearance at this stage would entice him.” She sighed. “Or any other man.”

Arthur cleared his throat. He still found her very much enticing, but it was not polite to say so. Or think so. 

She stood, the necklace still in her hands and came to meet him. Never did she ask for his assistance, but he gave it anyhow, taking the chain to fasten behind her neck. “You do yourself a disservice to think such things.” He finally said, as he secured the clasp, his lips hovering just above her temple. 

“How is that?”

Stepping back he contemplated how the amethysts made her whole countenance sparkle. “I will not feed your vanity. However, you know many have sung your praises, and I think they shall do for many a year to come. Now-“ He crossed to open the door of their room, “Let us go.”

If Arthur was not much mistaken he saw a smile on her lips before she pressed a hand to her side and winced. “Worry not,” she sighed, “I will not behave thus at the table.”

****

James played the part of a chivalric knight from a tale. A role which did not fail to please Arthur’s impressionable little sister. Arthur kept an eye on the Scots king for a few days before he consented to a request to let them ride out into the park with a small retinue for modesty’s sake. It was a concession he was not entirely comfortable with, but as Princess Catherine reminded him, very soon the two would ride back to Scotland to begin their married life together.

They had returned together looking pleased and contented. James played the part of an enchanted hero, smitten with some ethereal beauty, like in the stories. Arthur’s nose twitched with some irritation as he wondered how a man could find pleasure in a child half his age. It was unnatural. His mind wandered to his grandmother, she had married and fallen pregnant with his own father when she was not much older than Margaret was now. She had opposed Margaret’s own marriage while still a child. But the King of Scots would not wait for her for much longer and Arthur had had to make this concession. He only hoped he would not live to regret it.

That night after they had feasted in the hall James joined Arthur in his private chambers to share with the young prince some spirits he had brought with him from Scotland. The drink was strong and nearly puckered Arthurs face when he initially tasted it, but he did not dislike it. 

“I hear you have cultivated quite a cultured court for yourself there up north of the border.” Arthur said after James had dropped into one of the chairs by the hearth.

James held his cut glass cup up and studied the way the firelight glittered across the sharp edges. “I enjoy the finer things, the new way of thinking, I wish to make Scotland my own personal Florence.” The king smiled to himself. “We are thought a barbarous people, uncouth, feral. I assure you that while our customs may seem as such, they are every bit as symbolic and ceremonial as the English way.”

“Hmm.” Arthur did not much believe him, though a man was given some room to exaggerate the truth of his own people, he supposed a king most of all.

“Your sister, Princess Margaret, I believe will be a jewel is such a society.”

“Do you?” Arthur set his ropy frame upon the accompanying chair and resisted the urge to slouch and stretch out his long legs. He had been told he was equal parts York and Tudor. Tall and stately like the Yorks, slim and dark eyed like the Tudors. His brother Henry, by contrast, was nearly all York.

“She is spirited, sociable, cultured, and charming. What more could a king ask for in his queen?” He turned to regard the prince. “I am sure such qualifications were sought in the choosing of your own wife by your father the king?”

Arthur thought of Catherine momentarily. “I am sure you are right, your grace.” He replied easily. “As well as the political considerations.”

“Of course.” King James agreed.

“I do expect the border raids will subside once you and Princess Margaret are well married. He tested the waters. “England and Scotland will have the same interests.”

James’ eyebrows raised as he took another sip of his whiskey, “As a point of fact their interests will be similar, not the same, your grace.”

“It is a union, a treaty, your grace.” He attempted to clarify his position, rather than concede. It was important that he be satisfied that James understood the conditions. “Our interests must be harmonious with, rather than harmful to, the interest of the one another’s kingdom.”

“You think of the imposter.” The king assumed. The imposter, the pretender to the English throne, who King James had hosted in his northern court, who James had funded, who had threatened King Henry’s throne not all that many years ago.

“We expect that Scotland will have a view to English politics and will do nothing to hamper the interest of this nation, as we propose to do the very same for your fair kingdom.”

“Ah, but Scotland is no fair lass, like your England. She is a bonnie dark woman, if you ken.” There was a glimmer in his eye, like it was a tease. “Lustrous dark hair, burnished eyes, and all the rough edges of an untamed…”. His voice faded off with his thoughts. “Though I am sure you are a man faithful to his wife, and are not acquainted with the sort of woman I describe.”

The physical description did not match his Catherine, but her personality and demeanor was rather more spirited than a fine young woman’s should be by all rights. But that was his own private business. “Quite right. Well, whatever type of land you have, King James, we expect you will conduct its inhabitants and affairs in such a way as to not offend the promise you have made to England of perpetual peace.”

“Aye.” The king said, in a better humor now. “I will advise my lords of these conditions, as I promised to your father.”

“Thank you.”

****

Trying not to stare too obviously, Arthur watched as his wife descended the stairs. Maybe it was his vantage point but he was beginning to think that she looked rather farther along than she should have. He had seen his mother with child more than enough times to know what a woman should look like at all stages. And he was quite sure that Catherine looked larger than she should have.

For a moment his mind retreated to that dark place of self doubt. Maybe the child was not his at all, after all there was only really one instance to which he could track her condition. They had only been together that one night. And if it were not that night, it was some other night, with some other man. But he just as soon banished the thought. Pious Catherine would never dare. Would she?

“Your grace.” She said as she reached him and made to curtsy, but he took her hand.

“Princess.” His smile was not as kind as he hoped. “Have you come to see off the happy couple.”

“Of course. Princess Margaret is my sister, is she not? I would not fail to give her my best wishes.” 

“Naturally.” He dropped her hand as he saw Hal striding into the hall long-legged.

Hal bowed in polite deference to Catherine, doffing his hat which boasted a rather large plume that Arthur thought looked ridiculous rather than refined. “Everything is in readiness, brother.” He said, turning as he rose from his bow.

“Thank you, Hal.” He said. “Are King James and our sister outside already?”

“Indeed.” The younger brother replied. “The horses should already be in the courtyard, and his retinue are just beyond the walls, ready to accompany them as they leave.”

Arthur nodded and crossed to the great doors that led into the hall. Catherine and Hal fell in behind him as the guards opened the doors for the royal family. 

King James was patting the strong jaw of his courser to one side, the horse’s reins in one gloved hand. To the other side Margaret was nervously pulling at the fingers of her kidskin gloves, a gift from James, as he understood it. Her long red hair was loose about her shoulders, under the hood of her cloak, pulled up against the fine misty rain that blew about them in the diffused light of the early morning.

“We greet you well, your grace, sister.” Arthur said, assuming a kingly demeanor, emulating his father as best as he could.

“Good morning your grace.” King James smiled, but did not abandon his post by his horse.

“We pray your journey north will be safe, and that you will have a successful and fruitful marriage.” He looked from one to the other. “We trust you will find complete happiness with one another and that your union will serve as a perfect symbol of the peace between our two nations.”

“Aye, let it be so.” James finally strode to Arthur and shook his hand. “And it is our prayer that your grace and Princess Catherine will be delivered of a strong, healthy child, and mayhaps, an heir.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Arthur bowed his head, and he imagined Catherine did the same.

Margaret approached as well now. “Brother, thank you for seeing myself and the king off. Please be faithful to write me often.” There was worry in her eyes, and he thought it could be as much her apprehensions for her own future as for the wellbeing of their father.

“I will keep you informed of all that could interest you, and promise to send you my love as often as possible.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers with only a little awkwardness.

She moved to Catherine, who promised to maintain a steady correspondence with her sister-in-law. His wife kissed Margaret’s cheek and he thought he spied her whispering something in the younger girl’s ear. Women always had their secrets.

But the moment was brief, for Margaret was soon advancing to Hal’s unembarrassed embrace. The two had grown up close, their rivalry and love for one another was intense, for they were altogether too similar to one another. Hal told her he would see her in Scotland sometime soon, Lord willing, which pleased Margaret greatly.

It was all too soon that James and Margaret were withdrawing from them, the king helping his bride up onto her horse himself, which brought his sister some clear delight. And then they were off, riding against the misty drizzle, the echo of their horses hooves soon nothing but a whisper.

“Are we to remain at Richmond?” Hal asked shortly.

Arthur looked about the royal residence. Suddenly it seemed hollow, and he perceived that the presence of just the three of them would not be enough to fill this palace. For so long it had been their family home, clearly it would feel empty with just this remnant. “No.”

“Where will we go?” His brother asked, helping Catherine up the shallow steps and back into the palace.

He thought of his grandmother’s latest letter to him, tucked into his writing desk under lock and key, safe from all eyes but his own. “Back to London.” He said, as they entered the hall and the doors began to close behind them. 

“Not to father?” Hal asked.

“No. We will repair to Baynard’s castle.” Arthur said. No doubt his presence would be required in London soon enough, if the information given in his grandmother’s letter was to be believed.


End file.
